


Time to Get it Right

by IWantYouInMyLife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mates, Older Stiles Stilinski, Pierced Stiles Stilinski, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel, Younger Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-05 08:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17915780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWantYouInMyLife/pseuds/IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: Maybe Stiles had spent overmuch time on the wrong try, and now it was time to get it right. Even if he had to kill everyone in their way to make it so.





	1. Chapter 1

_Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like._  
**― Lemony Snicket**

\---

There was no other way to say it — it hurt.

Stiles stood on the porch of a house that he was intimately familiar with while still finding all of it new and strange as his eyes traveled across the many surfaces available, trying to take everything in at the same time, maybe afraid it would vanish at any second. Without giving himself time to chicken out, Stiles knocked on the door, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary, but his entire body felt unbalanced, and in his condition, it was better to err on the side of caution than to open space for talking himself out of doing it.

So he knocked. And waited, holding his breath and fisting his hands alongside his body. That was it — Stiles had waited for far too long to do that, to be where he was, to knock on that door and wait for the steps coming his way.

The speech was prepared, burning at the tip of his tongue, ready to be unleashed on the Alpha the second she opened the door. Stiles had always been good at talking, explaining, making himself be heard, so he knew he could do it then — when so much was at stake. So he held his breath, opened his mouth, watched as the doorknob turned and the door began to open, inch by inch, revealing a spacious house behind it, filled with noises coming from all corners, and, last but not least, the person he came to see: Talia.

Only it wasn't her. The person who stood there, greeting Stiles with a hesitant ' _hello,_ ' as though questioning Stiles' mental health, was not Talia. Definitely not. Stiles was sure of it, even if he had never seen the Alpha Hale in all of his life, and that's because that person, the one he was staring at, gobsmacked and frozen in place, was none other than the person he had come to save.

There, in all his former glory, stood Peter Buck Hale.

He couldn't be more than twenty-five — not with that soft, unshaved look on him. Peter looked nice, and calm, and centered, and put together, and healthy, and his eyes burned with curiosity, but not with madness, or fury, or despair, and Stiles' knee trembled with the truly herculean effort it took to maintain him upright.

Peter was speaking to him, Stiles could tell that. He could see the way his lips moved, opening and closing around the words, which probably meant that Stiles should be answering to whatever question was being thrown in his direction, and he knew how quickly Peter ran out of patience with those he considered to be slow on the uptake, so it _was_ in his best interest to pay attention and respond like a non-pathetic human being. Yet, his brain refused to cooperate.

Instead, in a horrifying move pulled out of a poorly acted third-class movie, Stiles' hand darted forward without any permission on his part, slowly coming closer to Peter's face, while Stiles freaked out internally, screaming at himself to drop it, to stop before he lost his hand to a set of sharp teeth. No matter how much his mind tried to reason with his treacherous body, though, it fell on deaf ears, and after what felt like a long eternity, there he was, pressing his rough, calloused hands against Peter's cheek, feeling the rash stubble growing there.

Peter, who for some unexplainable reason allowed the easily avoidable caress and whose skin felt warm and _alive_ under his touch. God, it was so unexpectedly good, the rush of emotions so powerful, that Stiles could do little else but to flutter his eyes shut and force the air inside his lungs.

How long had it been since he had the chance to do that? How many times had Stiles turned around, ready to speak something to his mate, only to realize he wasn't there? How many panic attacks had he had, blaming himself for all the shit that happened and the times he wasn't there for Peter? How many? How many books had he read, how many sites had he searched, how many people had he questioned, all in search of something that would give him a chance to fix the mess his life had become? How many days had he counted, barely holding his torn, destroyed pieces together, waiting for the moment where he would give all of his future up only so his soulmate could have his?

"Are you okay?" Peter murmured softly, leaning into touch with a tilt of the head.

And Stiles didn't have it in him to lie. Not to Peter, not after being caught completely unprepared. "No," he said, forcing his eyes open just so he could make sure Peter was still there, still alive. "I'm not. I'm not okay, Peter."

Shit, it should've been obvious that he was not okay. Stiles wasn't stupid, he owned a mirror — or had owned a mirror —, so he understood just how grim the picture he painted was, how dirty and beaten he looked, or how unflattering some of his body modifications were. The piercings, the painted runes, the unnatural purple eyes, the scars… Most of them weren't pretty, but at the time it had seemed to be a small price to pay for the chance to be able to be where he was. Stiles wasn't a vain man, and even the highest of prices couldn't compare to the starving need he had of his mate.

Only right then, with said mate staring directly at him, with his sharp eyes and even sharper mind, Stiles felt raw, exposed, and, worst of all, unworthy in a way he had never felt before. The Peter standing inside the Hale house was untouched by the karmic mess that Stiles knew awaited for him in the years to come, so truly, who was Stiles to show up and touch him, forcing his rough touch on his young and pure mate?

Like a snake, Stiles recoiled his hand, taking a step back for good measure. "I--I'm sorry. That was...uh… really inappropriate of me? I'm actually here for Talia--Um... Alpha Hale?" He explained, clearing his throat and sounding too much like a lost idiot.

Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed by his sudden mood shift, although he said nothing about it, only asking, "what business do you have with my sister?"

_Lie_ , Stiles' mind ordered, and a hundred different excuses ran through his head, ready to be used, only when he opened his mouth, that was not what came out of it. "I have important information I need to share with her. She doesn't know me — if that's what you're wondering."

"Is that so? What kind of information?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Stiles teased before he could help himself, the familiarity of the situation overpowering his better judgment.

The corner of Peter's mouth tugged upwards. "I would, indeed, like to know. Why should I allow a stranger inside my home without proper incentive?"

The truth was: Stiles didn't have to indulge Peter's curiosity. He could've pushed the man aside at any point and looked for Talia on his own — it would've been far too simple. Deaton never warded the Hale property and, in that ironic twist of fate, Stiles was actually older than Peter at the moment, with a great deal more knowledge under his belt and no Alpha to answer to. So, yeah, he could storm inside and ignore Peter's threats, only he didn't want to.

Stiles had seen his soulmate die, slowly bleeding to death at his feet with nothing he could've done to prevent it. The pain of losing him was so fresh in his mind that there's literally nothing Peter could do or ask that Stiles wouldn't gladly provide.

"I'm not a stranger," Stiles pointed out, rather unhelpfully.

"You are," Peter denied, his eyes sliding up and down Stiles' body. "Trust me, if I knew you, I'd remember."

Stiles grinned. "I'm flattered."

"No, you aren't."

"You're right, I'm not." Stiles shrugged. "We have met, though. It's not my fault that you can't remember, Peter." He gave him a mischievous look. "Maybe your memory is just not quite as good as you believe it to be, my love."

The words come out of his lips so smoothly, so practiced, that it was impossible to pretend it to be a slip of the tongue, or anything other than what it was, honestly. Which is why Stiles panicked, his eyes widening as he realized Peter's face was now a mask of incredulity. What was his problem? It shouldn't be that hard to keep his goddamn mouth shut.

Suddenly, Peter turned and sniffed the air, snatched his arm and pushed his wrist on his face, shamelessly rubbing his nose against the skin there. His eyes widened. "That's impossible," he said, grabbing the wrist and holding it tight.

Stiles gulped, knowing exactly what scent Peter had just smelled coming from him in strong waves – his own. To be precise, the scent of them both, mixed together in such a way that could only mean one thing, which was why the next place Peter's eyes landed was the base of his neck. Fortunately – or unfortunately –, Stiles' leather jacket was zipped all the way up, covering the mating bite.

"Take it off," Peter demanded, and Stiles knew that ' _don't fuck with me_ ' tone. It meant that Peter was about to rip the jacket to shreds if Stiles didn't comply fast enough.

He was torn. On the one hand, he shouldn't expose himself any more than he already had, even though his scent had pretty much exposed the truth anyway. On the other hand, however, Stiles foolishly wanted to show it just as much as Peter wished to see it. He wanted Peter to see the mark – his mark – branded on Stiles' body.

The problem was: Stiles had no impulse control. With the way his body tingled where Peter was touching him, his entire being singing at the proximity after almost two years of grief and pain, it was almost instantaneous. He reached for his zipper with his free hand, not even considering the possibility of tugging his other hand free, and did as his mate ordered. Stiles didn't pretend to not know what he was talking about either – he unzipped just enough to fold the right side outwards and pulled his shirt down, barring his neck to Peter.

"That's impossible," Peter repeated, but he took a step forward, bringing them closer. "There's no way I would've--No, I'd know--How you— " He stopped. "Who are you?"

"I'm Stiles," he supplied, shifting on his feet.

"Stiles? What sort of name is Stiles? Did your parents not like you?" Peter asked, an eyebrow raised, pulling him inside the house and pushing the door closed behind him. Somehow, the action seemed to symbolize more than a simple door being shut, although he hesitated to think what it could possibly mean.

"It's not even my name, to be honest." Stiles managed to say, going on autopilot. "If you think that's bad, I'll spare you of the Polish monstrosity that my mom decided to bestow upon an innocent baby."

Peter grinned at that. "Tell me."

"God, no way," Stiles said, shaking his head. That was an old argument between them; that, he knew. "If you think I'm gonna give you ammunition to mock me for the last of eternity, then you're sorely mistaken. I value my sanity, still. C'mon, you know better."

Only he didn't, of course. Shit, defuse, defuse.

"Don't act like you're better than me, Buck," Stiles mocked, hoping Peter was too distracted to pay attention to his heartbeat.

Peter's eyes flashed. "Who. Are. You?" He demanded that time, fisting a handful of Stiles' jacket and shoving him into the wall behind him. "You come into my home, with my mark on your neck, smelling like me, acting like you fucking know me, and now you want me to believe I somehow shared my middle name with you and forgot about it?"

There wasn't an answer that Peter would trust, so Stiles chose to do what he wanted and fuck the rest. When Peter leaned forward to threaten him, completely bypassing his personal space, Stiles did too, capturing the wolf's bottom lip in between his own. If he was about to be punched, the least he could do was do something to deserve it. So he did, moaning, hoping against reason that the man would respond to his touch.

Weirdly enough, he did. Peter didn't even hesitate, he only tilted his head and melted into the kiss, flattening his body hot against Stiles', his other hand grabbing his thigh and lifting Stiles further off the ground.

"Fuck, Peter," Stiles groaned, shamelessly wrapping his legs around his mate's waist, pressing the heel of his boots on his back. He wanted to melt under Peter's touch and never release him again. " _Please._ "

He had no idea what he was pleading for, but wasn't surprised when Peter did, his hands leaving their places to go to his hips, squeezing so hard there was no way Stiles wouldn't have marks there for days to come, and the sudden flash of bright pain only served to force Stiles to cant his hips, which, in turn, rubbed their groins together. It should be criminal; it was so good.

Who knows what they would've done in the middle of the Hale's living room if someone hadn't cleared their throat behind Peter's back? Stiles certainly wouldn't have stopped them. Had no force to push his mate away, even if he wanted to. Peter was reluctant when he kissed him one last time, turning his head to glance over his shoulder, refusing to release Stiles.

It was Talia. Stiles wasn't surprised – that was the sort of luck he had.

"Is there someone you wish to introduce me to, Peter?" She asked, a quiet expression of amusement on her face.

Peter wasn't so amused. "No, go away."

"Peter!" Stiles chided, slapping his shoulder. "Hey, there. I'm Stiles. You must be Talia Hale, hun? Nice to meet you!"

"Stiles, you say? Are you an… acquaintance of my brother?"

Peter rolled his eyes, and Stiles choked on air.

"I-I mean, not really?" Stiles denied, locking eyes with Talia. "I'm actually here to speak to you, Alpha Hale."

Her whole stance changed in front of his eyes, going from relaxed to grave in a blink. "What sort of business would a magic user have with my pack?"

"All sorts," Stiles said, also dead serious. She might not know it yet, but Stiles was just as invested in her pack's future as she was. Peter seemed to notice the shift of mood, for he released Stiles, stepping back, watching his moves. "I'm here to give you a warning, but mostly I'm here to offer you my services. How would you like an Emissary?"

"Emissary? What makes you think I don't have one?"

Stiles pursed his lips, holding back several words building at the back of his throat. "Ditch Deaton today. Do it now. Whatever it is that you think that man's offering you, I'll give you a hundred times over, and without the cryptic bullshit, too."

Talia ignored Peter's noises of delight, looking perplexed by Stiles' strange presence and knowledge of her pack's internal workings. "You are well informed," she admitted, only it didn't sound like she thought that was a good thing. "And the warning?"

"Hey, I don't just offer my services to anyone, you know? I'm a spark, Talia Ann Hale," he tried to joke, but it came out with a wince of pain as the whole speech he had planned came to mind once again. Was it not enough that he had to hear, witness and live all that shit, must he also pass the information along, knowing how much it would hurt them to know all they needed to avoid? "I-it's a long story." He looked at the open space they were in, where at any minute anyone could interrupt. "Perhaps a more — soundproof place?"

"I see," Talia said, and she, too, was not laughing. "Very well. Follow me."

It went unspoken that Peter would also be present, but they both knew the man was going nowhere, so when the Alpha turned around to lead them somewhere more private, Stiles reached for his mate's hand, holding for dear life.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, feeling tears gathering at his eyes. Tears he had yet to shed since Peter's death. "I'm so sorry, Peter." It was all he could say – he wouldn't ask for forgiveness, he refused. "I wanted to tell you. I did."

Peter's eyes fell to the place where his mark was on Stiles' neck, staying there for a stretched moment, before he locked eyes with him once again, lacing their fingers together. At that moment, it felt like an understanding, a promise. Something older Peter had once quoted to him in the heat of battle: some things are destined to be — it just takes us a couple of tries to get there.

Maybe Stiles had spent overmuch time on the wrong try, and now it was time to get it right. Even if he had to kill everyone in their way to make it so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So, I've decided to write a part two to this story. Weee?
> 
> I know I haven't responded to any of the lovely, incredible reviews you guys wrote for the first chapter, and I swear I desperately want to, but anxiety has been kicking my butt lately, and any form of social contact has been driving me up the walls. Anyway, I just wanted you all to know that I've read all of them, smiling and grinning like a fool with every positive word and encouragement to give Stiles and Peter another scene.
> 
> So, here it is. Rather than responding one by one — which I still plan to do, I swear! — I've decided to post this second part. I hope it's a sufficient reward.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support!
> 
> **OBS: I would like to point out that this Stiles is an older, battle-hardened version of himself, and, as such, he's much more casual about violence and prone to dark thoughts. If you're easily triggered, beware.**

It wasn't a pleasant story to tell.

From the minute Kate Argent decided to seduce a young Derek Hale and set fire to his family house, a snowball of epic proportions emerged, only growing in size with every death it caused in its path. And so, despite his best efforts and prior planning, Stiles still stuttered and choked his way into a half-decent narrative, telling the other two people in the room all he thought was necessary for them to understand the gravity of the matter.

Stiles skipped many parts, though, shamelessly editing his tale to leave out whichever parts he considered unnecessary to the story. It seemed fair. As long as his plan worked, none of it would happen, and it sounded crazy to burden them with the weight of things that would never happen — it would only hurt them.

Some events, however, were unavoidable. Unfortunately. Those he explained as best as he could, hoping they believed him and understood the importance of acting before they happened.

When he closed his mouth, having nothing more to add, they remained in silence for long minutes, digesting his words, a heavy tension permeating the air, leaving them all tense.

"You're early," Talia finally said, rubbing her forehead. "Derek is dating—"

"Paige?" Stiles demanded, and once he had the Alpha's nod of confirmation, he turned to face Peter. "Have you spoken to him about her yet?"

Peter, who stood leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest, a disturbed expression on his face, asked: "About what?"

"Don't play games with me. I know you're already thinking about it," Stiles pressed. "The bite."

Peter had the decency to look chastised, averting his eyes. "I haven't. No."

Stiles released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Great. That's… good," he said, satisfied. One less problem to deal with, as far as he was concerned. His mate, however, looked oddly pouty about it, as though Stiles had ripped a new toy from his hands, so he added. "Don't look so pouty, Buck. I won't cut your wings all the time, alright? You still get to have your fun."

At that, Peter's gorgeous blue eyes suddenly sparkled with unrestrained delight. "You do realize that my definition of fun isn't what… ordinary people might consider a good time?"

"Oh, trust me, I'm well aware," Stiles confirmed, and fuck if his lips didn't twitch with the words. It would be his pleasure to indulge in all of his mate's wildest, reckless plans. "I'm not so clean cut myself, to be honest." He raised an eyebrow. "Or do I strike you as the sort to follow the rules?"

"Is this really necessary?" Talia interrupted, reproach clear in her voice. "I do already have my hands full handling only one troublemaker."

Not for much longer, though, if Stiles had it his way — Peter should be his responsibility. He ignored her, focusing on Peter, instead, waiting for his reaction. Thankfully, her words fell on deaf ears, and Peter carried on as if she hadn't spoken. "You did just stop me with Derek," he said, rather matter-factly.

"Derek's pack. Even if he doesn't know, even if has no idea who I am, he's still important to me, and this would hurt him — you would have hurt him," Stiles explained, hoping to convey with his eyes his true meaning. "I'm protective of those who I consider to be mine, Peter. However, lucky for you, I'm not a man with many connections. I won't do this for almost anybody else."

Peter jutted his chin upwards, challenge clear on his every feature, and Stiles had to resist the urge to soften his whole stance. He was just so young and full of insecurities, and all of Stiles burned with the need to wrap Peter in plastic wrap and protect him from anything or anyone who may wish to harm a single strand of hair from his head.

"And if I said I had a problem with Ennis?" Peter questioned, his meaning clear even without further words. Stiles knew the way Peter liked to deal with his problems — he doubted time had changed that.

"Okay," Stiles agreed readily, shrugging. If his mate wanted to kill the werewolf, Stiles certainly knew of cleaner, faster ways in which to do so. He also had no lost love for any member of the Alpha Pack.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "And if I had a problem with his entire pack?"

"Peter!" Talia called out, scandalized.

Stiles only nodded. "Okay."

His easy compliance seemed to irk Peter, 'cause he took a step forward, bringing them both chest to chest, a hint of ice blue blending into his human eyes. "And if I—"

And enough was enough. " _Okay,_ " Stiles interrupted. That time, his voice went deeper as his magic rose to the surface — his tattoos shifting in their places and his purple eyes tingling. In a way, it was a show of power — the magical equivalent of a peacock flashing its feathers or a werewolf presenting its kill.

It was also foolish. There he was, twenty-nine years old, a spark, a time fucking traveler, with great events he needed to change, and instead, he was staring at his younger mate hungrily, displaying his power like a douchebag, while agreeing to murder whomever Peter pleased.

What was he doing?

Only Peter didn't seem to think it was foolish or idiotic. In fact, he looked downright impressed, and more than a little bit aroused. His nostrils flared, and he leaned closer, forcing them to stand impossibly close.

"I wanna throw you down and crack you open," he growled, his mouth wrapping obscenely around the words.

"I might just let you," Stiles admitted, desperately trying to control himself.

Shit.

Fuck.

_Don't jump him. Don't grab. Don't pull closer. Don't frighten him._

Something in his expression must have given him away, 'cause Peter looked annoyed. "I've known you for a few hours, and I can already tell this is gonna get old really fast," he complained, grabbing Stiles' bicep and shaking him. "Don't you dare. Don't fucking hold back with me."

It was a proverbial bucket of cold water to the face. What could this Peter — innocent, young, untarnished — know about holding back? He probably thought Stiles offers were a hypothetical situation that would never actually happen. He couldn't know how serious Stiles was — how many people the spark had killed for him, and wouldn't hesitate to do again.

Peter had only killed for Talia — maybe. Once. If that.

Standing in front of him, wasn't Stiles' Peter. This kid — Stiles forced himself to call him that — would never be him if all went according to plan.

Shit.

Just like before, Stiles backtracked. He took three long steps back, and the ease with which he ripped his arm from the wolf's grasp only solidified his reasonings. He was screwing up too much, too soon.

"You shouldn't provoke people you don't know," he admonished, shaken. "It might be dangerous."

And it was, truly. Stiles was dangerous, unhinged.

"Are you always this honorable?" Peter drawled, a hint of disdain in his voice, and it raised Stiles' hackles with surgical precision. "Because it will get boring, soon."

"Honorable? I'm trying to stick with the plan—"

"Of being impossibly dull? If so, you're quite succeeding, dear," he mocked, taking a step forward. "Terribly irritating on your part, too."

And there it was, once more, his awful, non-existent impulse control. Stiles didn't think, he took his jacket off, shrugging the sleeves away, letting the item fall to the floor, revealing his short-sleeved shirt, which displayed many of his runes and not a small number of scars.

"You demand answers when you have no way of handling the truth," Stiles spat through gritted teeth. "Like what you see?" He didn't expect a response, knowing better than to hold his breath for a positive review of his fucked up body. "I'm an exposed nerve, Peter. A grenade ready to blow." He felt his own mouth morphing into a sardonic smile. "You're my soulmate, and Hades' know I'll give you whatever you may need, but don't jump before looking both ways — you of all people should know better than to be this impulsive. I'm not your happy ending."

And it hurt all over again, seeing Peter standing right there, alive, healthy, amazing, looking better than Stiles' wildest dreams, and still having to put distance between them, trying to be the responsible adult he could — but hated to — be.

It was for the best, though. It had to be. Stiles had had his Peter, his soulmate, and he allowed him to die. How greedy would he be to steal this one too?

"Happy endings are for the weak, who don't strive toward greatness," Peter said, interrupting his inner struggle. And it was then that Stiles noticed their position. When had Peter pressed Stiles against a wall, hands bracketing his way out? His voice was a complete sin when he murmured: "Whatever you want, you say?"

A voice came from the left. "Please, don't give my brother that kind of _carte blanche_ ," Talia pleaded, and Stiles was reminded that she was still there, witnessing the entire encounter.

Stiles glared at her from over Peter's arm. "Please, don't stick your nose into my mateship," he said evenly, but firmly. If he was to stay, it was for the best that she learned the lines he wouldn't allow her to cross sooner rather than later.

When she flashed her eyes in response, Stiles nearly rolled his eyes. "Yeah, those won't work with me."

"You would do well to remember that I'm Peter's older sister," she warned, going for a stern look. "His family, his Alpha."

"I'm sure you think that gives you a lot of hold over him."

The corner of Peter's mouth curved upwards at that, although it remained hidden from his sister by his shoulder.

Talia pursed her lips. "I believe so, yes. Don't you?"

"No. Not even for a goddamn minute."

"You seem rather hostile for a person claiming to wish to become my emissary."

Stiles tensed at the dig. "I care about what happens to your family. I believe I can better protect everyone by staying as an emissary, but I don't have to." It sounded obvious to him, but he added anyway. "If Peter chooses to leave, I'll be going with him, of course."

"And I should, as you've said, ditch Deaton without any guarantees of your permanence?"

"Even if I left, I would still ward your land, speak with the Nemeton, handle the threats, and leave you with the means to contact with me whenever necessary. Just that is worth more than all the shit that Druid did for you put together. He's a leech."

Talia seemed to realize she was quickly losing that fight and changed tactics. "You say you're not good for my brother, and yet you complain when I raise my doubts?"

"I know I'm not good for Peter. Gosh, he's fucking twenty-three." Stiles tried not to grimace at that. "It's not your place to meddle, however. He's old enough to make such decisions on his own terms."

"So it's my decision, hun?" Peter jumped at the opening, making Stiles notice that he had inadvertently contradicted his own previous arguments. And that did it. Stiles laughed.

He shouldn't give Peter further ammunition, but he still said: "I have a bad track-record at saying no to you, anyway."

"Good to know."

It was pointless, Stiles realized, sagging against the wall. He didn't have the strength to stay away from Peter — not when he was right in front of him, demanding attention and affection. Perhaps if Stiles were a better man, he would've refrained from touching his soulmate, exposing their bond, leaving Peter to live his previous life as he desired. But Stiles wasn't a good man, and he lacked the mental fortitude to withstand even the slightest pressure when the subject was Peter Hale.

He had no idea how they would go from there. No clue how to begin to soften his edges for this young, precious Peter, who was probably more bark than bite, but he wanted to. God, he wanted. If Peter could look at his body without flinching, maybe they had a chance. A chance to get it right this time.

Stiles didn't delude himself thinking it would be easy, but he tilted his head sideways, resting his cheek against Peter's forearm, his eyes softening in that special way they only ever did for him, giving up. Giving in.

"Be careful with what you'll ask me to do, 'kay?" Stiles whispered, trying to keep his eyes from glowing too hard.

Peter just grinned, leaning to speak against his lips. "Oh, don't worry. I plan to be very, very careful." His head slid the side, and he whispered against Stiles' ear that time, his tongue brushing on the several piercings there. His hand traced a pattern on the runes in his arm. "Do stop holding back, Stiles. I can smell the struggle, and it's distracting from your lovely smell."

"Okay," Stiles agreed, barely able to get the word out with Peter being so distractive. It was almost embarrassingly easy. When he released the tight hold he had over his magic, it snapped and expanded, covering both of them and pushing them impossibly closer — a greeting, a welcome, a hug.

It was much like taking off a tight shoe after a long decade, and Stiles couldn't keep the groan of satisfaction from falling off his lips, digging his fingernails into Peter's back. There were no words for the feeling.

"That's it, sweetheart," Peter cooed, nibbling on the base of Stiles' neck. "Just let go."

And he did. Stiles let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! I don't know if that's what y'all had in mind when you said you wanted more, but it's what I felt like writing. My favorite part of Steter is their verbal bickering, to be honest.
> 
> Anyway, if you want to see another snippet of this universe, maybe leave a comment saying what you have in mind, and perhaps my muse will give me something, alright? Love you all. Xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I have no excuses for myself. I've lost control. I hope this makes sense and that y'all liked it. Comments are greatly appreciated. Like, crazy appreciated! Xoxo.


End file.
